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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205279">Known.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo'>yodasyoyo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A fake moustache, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And a newspaper with eyeholes cut out, Domestic Fluff, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Or if not successfully subverted, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, The trope is just sitting on a park bench minding it's business, Then I at least disguised the trope in a brown trench coat, Trope Subversion, What are you looking at?, so much pining it's basically a forest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:28:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Right from the beginning there had been something about Stiles— a brightness, a tenacity, an otherness. It had driven Derek mad that first couple years, the way Stiles was always there, proactively inserting himself into situations, pushing himself, pushing Derek, protecting the pack, making himself indispensable. </p><p>After all, what gave him the fucking right?</p><p>It wasn’t just that, though. As a kid, Derek had read about the intense heat and pressure needed to create diamonds, and there was something about Stiles which always reminded him of that. Somehow Stiles had a knack of taking his obvious fear and compacting it, pushing it down and down, compressing it, until it became something more. Something useful. Something beautiful. </p><p>As someone whose only experience with the alchemy of fear was to transmute it into blind, bitter rage, Derek often envied Stiles that. He recognized it for what it was, though— a kind of magic in its own right. </p><p>-</p><p>The one where they have to pretend to be soulmates for reasons. It all works out in the end, I promise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1633</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Known.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmypuff/gifts">grimmypuff</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ok. First things first. This fic is dedicated to the Grimmiest of all puffs. LOVE YOU. Happy birthday. It's fitting that I finished this in the week of your birthday, because without you offering to look over it and then cheering me on-- it would still be a sad little WIP, languishing away with all my other WIPS. So this one really does belong to you! Hope you have a great day!</p><p>Secondly, omg. I have really struggled to write this year. Actually that's a lie. I have struggled to FINISH writing anything this year. I've started a million fics and I just can't get past the middle to the happy ending. It's like the writing equivalent of erectile dysfunction, or priapism. Or something. Anyway. *ahem* too much info. I digress.</p><p>I hope you guys are staying safe and that you enjoy this fic. It's a bit of weird one. I'm not sure about it. But goddammit I managed to finish something, so I'm gonna publish it. Just hand wave over the plot with me, it's basically all about the characters anyway, amiright?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So that’s it?” Scott asks, brow crinkled in concern. He stares around Derek’s loft at the pack, pleading. “We’ve exhausted all the options. There’s really nothing we can do?”</p><p>The silence that follows is damning.</p><p>Lydia’s perched on the window seat. She arrived home from Boston last night, and this is the first pack meeting she’s attended since the news broke a month ago. So far this evening she’s sat in silence and let everyone else talk but now, finally, she speaks. “Actually, I think there’s one obvious solution you’ve all overlooked.”</p><p>Fading remnants of the day’s sunlight filter through Derek’s loft window; long shadows are creeping in. Usually he enjoys the twilight— likes to sit in the stillness and watch as day gives way to night— relishes the pull of the moon under his skin as it calls to him, reminding him who he is. There’s no room to appreciate that now, though. Every member of the McCall pack turns to look at Lydia.</p><p>“Obvious to you, maybe!” Stiles spits, when she doesn’t offer any immediate follow up. “Not all of us are geniuses.” His face is pale, palms sweaty, and he keeps fidgeting in his seat. For once Derek sympathizes. It’s only through sheer force of will that he hasn’t put his own fist through a wall in frustration. </p><p>Lydia rolls her eyes.</p><p>“Soulmates.” She lets the word steep in the tension of the room, as everyone blinks at her, dumbfounded. When absolutely no one responds, she sighs. “It’s the only thing that nobody can argue against. The only thing that <em> always </em>wins no matter what. Stiles needs a soulmate.”</p><p>A moment later the whole room descends into chaos.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Right from the beginning there had been something about Stiles— a brightness, a tenacity, an otherness. It had driven Derek mad that first couple years, the way Stiles was always there, proactively inserting himself into situations, pushing himself, pushing Derek, protecting the pack, making himself indispensable. </p><p>After all, what gave him the fucking right?</p><p>It wasn’t just that, though. As a kid, Derek had read about the intense heat and pressure needed to create diamonds, and there was something about Stiles which always reminded him of that. Somehow Stiles had a knack of taking his obvious fear and compacting it, pushing it down and down, compressing it, until it became something more. Something useful. Something beautiful. </p><p>As someone whose only experience with the alchemy of fear was to transmute it into blind, bitter rage, Derek often envied Stiles that. He recognized it for what it was, though— a kind of magic in its own right. </p><p>Maybe if he’d been a little more like Stiles, Isaac would have stayed. Maybe Boyd and Erica would still be alive. </p><p>Maybe his family—</p><p>It didn’t matter. Or rather, it mattered too much to bear thinking about. </p><p>Suffice to say that when Stiles, late in his senior year, discovered he was magical, or at least had magical potential, Derek hadn’t been surprised at all. Rather it felt like a missing piece of a jigsaw slotting into place.</p><p>In the weeks that followed the discovery Stiles had tried to explore the limits of his own power with his trademark stubbornness and total disregard for his own safety. </p><p>A couple of small fires, an explosion in an abandoned warehouse, and the temporary loss of Stiles’ eyebrows swiftly followed. Eventually the Sheriff stepped in and insisted that Deaton help.</p><p>Under Deaton’s tutelage Stiles flourished. With training and practice Deaton said Stiles could become Scott’s emissary — so Stiles trained. He practiced. He spent the next few years devoting himself not only to completing a bachelor's degree in education at Berkeley (with a major in history), but to his emissary training with Deaton. Surprising nobody except himself, he excelled at both.</p><p>At the ripe old age of 23 Stiles was now living back in Beacon Hills, teaching History at Beacon Hills High, and was easily on course to finish his emissary training within the next six months.</p><p>And then. </p><p>Then an official letter from the McGovern pack in Pennsylvania had landed on Scott’s doorstep, and everything had gone to hell.</p><p>It turned out that fifty years ago Stiles’ grandmother had been emissary to their pack. Now, their most recent emissary had died after a wendigo attack, and they were looking for a replacement. All of this should have been sad, but irrelevant to the McCall pack. Unfortunately, according to ‘some fucking stupid, archaic, werewolf law of emissary primogeniture’ (to use Stiles’ own words), because of his grandmother the McGovern pack now had the right to demand that Stiles join them in a few months, once his training was complete.</p><p>Weeks of furious research followed, with every available member of the pack poring over books, combing through websites, and seeking advice from old supernatural contacts. Anything anyone could feasibly think of to try and prevent the inevitable— to try and find a loophole.</p><p>The result was always the same. The law was ancient, almost never enforced nowadays, but it existed, and if the McGovern pack chose to invoke it, there was little the McCall pack could do to prevent them. </p><p>Derek had spent the last couple of months wanting to scream into his pillow.</p><p>Then yesterday Lydia had arrived back from Boston, and Scott had called a pack meeting at Derek’s loft in a last ditch effort to come up with a plan.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“—And I don’t know if you’ve noticed. But less than one percent of the population has a soulmate, Lyds!” Stiles is no longer trying to contain his pent up energy, and is actively pacing the room. “I can’t just call one into existence for my own fucking convenience.” He flings his hands into the air, and sparks jump from his fingertips. “Shit,” he says. Stumbling to a stop, he turns his back, bunches his hands into fists, and takes a deep, steadying breath.</p><p>“No,” Lydia says with maddening patience. “That’s not what I’m saying though, is it?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Stiles whirls around to face her. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>“You don’t need a soulmate. They just need to think you have one.”</p><p>Silence falls again, tightening round them like a vice. Finally Scott speaks. “Are you seriously—?”</p><p>“Suggesting that Stiles and another member of the pack need to fake a soul bond for the duration of the McGovern pack’s visit? Yes. Yes, I am.”</p><p>If the room was chaotic after her initial pronouncement, it’s bedlam now. Everyone starts talking over each other all at once.</p><p>“The soulmate bond is sacred you can’t just—”</p><p>“What if they found out what we—”</p><p>“It could start a pack war.”</p><p>“Who’s gonna wanna to do that with me?”</p><p>It’s only once Scott puts a bit of Alpha oomph behind his growled, “Shut up,” that they quiet down.</p><p>“It wouldn’t work,” Kira says, in the silence that follows. “Even if we fooled them. The McGovern pack could just say that Stiles’ ‘soulmate’ has to join their pack too, right?” She looks around at them all for confirmation.</p><p>“That rather depends on who the soulmate is, doesn’t it?” Lydia’s responding to Kira, but Derek doesn’t miss the way her gaze rests on him, one eyebrow arched.</p><p>Everyone else in the room, however, turns automatically to look at Scott, whose mouth has formed a tight little ‘o’ of realization. “Me and Stiles?” His voice cracks over the words. Unbidden his eyes dart to Kira. “I guess because I’m the Alpha they wouldn’t be able to— I mean I’ll do it, but—”</p><p>For her part Lydia hasn’t taken her eyes off of Derek, and all in a rush Derek knows where this is going; his heart travels the distance to his mouth at record speed.</p><p>“No offence but the idea of you and Stiles in any kind of romantic relationship, even a fake one, is weird and vaguely incestuous—” Lydia says, with a wry smile, “I thought Derek would be the better choice.”</p><p>“Derek?” Stiles sputters, wide-eyed. He staggers back a step. “Seriously?”</p><p>Staring at the floor, Derek folds his arms, and feels his jaw clench. Every eye in the room is on him now, as Lydia says, “Derek is both the last remaining Hale, and capable of the full shift. His connection to this territory isn’t just through Scott. It’s through blood. Generations of Hale wolves are connected to this land. If you were <em> Derek’s </em> soulmate—”</p><p>He knows he’s being weak, but Derek can’t help letting his gaze drift to Stiles momentarily.</p><p>“But— but— but—” Stiles sputters. “But ok. Ok, this idea blows.”</p><p>It hurts more than it should, even though Derek agrees in principle. He looks away, finds a patch of floor to focus on and sucks in a breath.</p><p>“Dude,” Scott says, soft and reproachful.</p><p>“I mean. It isn’t Derek—” Stiles says hurriedly. “I just— we’re not like that. And— And the whole concept of soulmates at the best of times is— but us? <em> Us? </em> It’s an unlikely pairing, and it’s gonna be so awkward to— to sell it. Believably, I mean.”</p><p>“Well the McGovern pack plan to visit sometime in the next two or three months to pursue their claim over you. If you want them to disavow it, you better get to work making it look believable,” Lydia says with asperity. “Unless anyone else has a better idea.”</p><p>Stiles’ jaw works soundlessly as he scrubs a hand through his hair, misery wafting off him in waves so thick it clings to the air. </p><p>“We’ll make it work,” Derek says, still glaring at the floor. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“Stiles?” Lydia turns to look at Stiles, who lifts his hands, palms raised, then lets them fall.</p><p>“I mean. If Derek doesn’t object then— I guess. Sure.”</p><p>“Fine. Good. Stiles you’ll need to move in here for the foreseeable future, you two are gonna need to spend a lot of time together if we want to sell this. Also you’ll need matching tattoos, obviously.”</p><p>“Tattoos?” Stiles flinches, face gone pale.</p><p>“You have another way to emulate a soul mark? Because you know they’re gonna ask to see it.”</p><p>“Right. Yeah. Of course. And I’m fine with needles, obviously. So. So that should be. Fine.” He swallows, his gaze resting briefly on Derek before stuttering away.</p><p>There’s not much to say after that, and the meeting breaks up soon afterwards. Before he knows it, Derek is sitting in his loft alone, lights off, watching the sun as it finally dips below the horizon. There’s no peace to be found from the experience now, though. And when he finally goes to bed that night, he doesn’t sleep.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Soulmates are revered, especially among werewolves. Derek’s parents were soulmates. When she was sixteen his mother had woken up to find that a tattoo of a triskele had appeared overnight. At eighteen, she’d met Derek’s father, and discovered he had the identical mark. They were together for twenty-five years.</p><p>As a kid Derek had been curious, almost obsessed with the idea of soulmates. Even now he can remember asking his mom what it felt like to have one.</p><p>“I guess, I guess I feel— known,” she’d said, her smile turning wistful. </p><p>At the time he’d been disappointed. That didn’t sound exciting at all.</p><p>When Derek was sixteen, his skin was unmarked as he fucked Kate Argent in the backseat of her Buick. Two days later his family were all dead.</p><p>Getting his own triskele tattoo literally burned onto his back a few months later had been an act of atonement. Painful penance for the suffering his family endured, and a lasting reminder of what he’d done— and all he’d lost.</p><p>The idea of getting a second tattoo now? Well, if it were for anyone’s sake but Stiles’, he would have refused outright.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Anxiety takes up residence under Derek’s skin the morning after the pack meeting. It buzzes like a swarm of bees, a low level hum that refuses to leave him in peace as he eats microwaved oatmeal for breakfast, and berates himself.<br/><br/>How will this even work?</p><p>He should never have agreed to it.</p><p>There has to be another way.</p><p>A better way.</p><p>He just agreed because— </p><p>Because it’s Stiles.</p><p>
  <em> Stiles. </em>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He’s being so stupid. </p><p>So goddamn stupid.</p><p>He doesn’t text Stiles though, or try to back out of it. </p><p>Truthfully, he isn’t strong enough. </p><p>When Stiles parks up outside Derek’s building after lunch, his Jeep is crammed full to bursting. Among other things he’s brought three boxes of books, his TV (Derek doesn’t own one), his laptop, his Xbox, his Playstation, an aloe vera plant, a desk, a chair, a lamp, and an improbable amount of clothes including a trash bag full of graphic tees, and another entirely filled with plaid shirts. Nothing has been ironed or folded, naturally. </p><p>“So thanks for this, I appreciate it,” Stiles says, once he’s opened up the trunk. He fidgets with his phone and doesn’t meet Derek’s eye, scent sour with nerves in a way it hasn’t been for years.</p><p>A different person, a person like Scott, say, might try to get Stiles to talk about it— share his feelings, set some boundaries or whatever. That sort of thing has never come easily to Derek, though. Besides, it definitely isn’t how he and Stiles operate. Not to say they don’t look out for each other, but they draw comfort in a different way.</p><p>Derek picks up the bag of graphic tees and wrinkles his nose. “These are for goodwill, right?”</p><p>“Oh har har, Sourwolf’s got jokes.” Immediately Stiles stuffs his phone into his pocket, and snatches the bag from him, eyes narrowed as he finally meets Derek’s gaze. “Did they fix the elevator in your building yet?”</p><p>Derek shakes his head.</p><p>“Then why don’t you put your werewolf strength to good use carrying those boxes of books up the stairs.”</p><p>Derek bites down against a smile and does just that.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>They spend the afternoon unpacking, and it goes pretty well— or Derek thinks it does. Together they’ve always been an odd mix of striking similarities juxtaposed against deep points of contrast. Somehow it’s unsurprising to find that this extends to the minutiae of living together. Case in point, they bicker for a full fifteen minutes over where Stiles can put the TV (or if he can have one in the apartment at all<em> ) </em>, but agree immediately that all books should be sorted first by subject, then by author, and then by date published. </p><p>“Can you imagine being the kind of <em> heathen </em> who just puts books randomly on a shelf?” Stiles says, as he hefts another grimoire out of a box, and runs one finger lovingly along its spine. After inspecting it, he places it carefully on the bookcase. </p><p>“It doesn’t bear thinking about.”  A sharp note of something in the air catches Derek’s attention. Nostrils flaring, he crouches down and yanks something graying, squashy, and vaguely rectangular out of a nearby trash bag and holds it up. “What is <em> this </em>?”  </p><p>Stiles flushes pink. “That’s my pillow.”</p><p>“Why would you—? I have pillows, Stiles.”</p><p>“Yeah. But they’re not this pillow.”</p><p>“What’s so special about this pillow? Apart from the smell.”</p><p>“It’s mine! I can’t sleep without it.”</p><p>“When was the last time you washed it?” Derek asks flatly. </p><p>“I—” Stiles blushes an even deeper shade of red, and snatches it from him. “Oh my God, shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Even now Derek isn’t sure when it began, but if he had to guess he’d say it was somewhere between Stiles holding him up in a pool for two hours, and him placing that tentative, comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder in the immediate aftermath of Boyd’s death.</p><p>Anyway, the exact starting point doesn’t matter. All that matters is that at some point early on in their friendship, Derek developed feelings for Stiles. Romantic feelings. Feelings that he ignored at first because, well— there’s a short list of people Derek’s loved in his life, and the ones who aren’t dead have lived long enough to betray him. </p><p>Not that he believes Stiles would betray him. With his brash loyalty, and a persistence that verges on obnoxious, Stiles has proved again and again that he has Derek’s back. </p><p>No.</p><p>The death thing, though, is another matter. </p><p>Those first couple of years Stiles regularly rushes in where werewolves fear to tread with little more than a baseball bat and biting sarcasm to defend himself.</p><p>It would be terrifying enough without Derek’s personal history. The truth is though Derek’s never once managed to protect someone he cares for successfully— not in the long term, and sometimes it feels like death stalks the people he loves. So early on he makes a decision that the safest thing for all concerned is not to love— or failing that, not to allow the people he loves close. Maybe he can fool the universe that way. Maybe he can keep people safe.</p><p>It isn’t logical or healthy, Derek knows that, it’s grief twisted, or perhaps a coping mechanism to protect himself from more loss. But in the years that follow he cultivates a prickly veneer that keeps Stiles exactly where he wants him— at arm’s length. Close enough that Derek can pull him out of harm’s way if needed, but not so close that his secret will ever be revealed.</p><p>In the last couple of years, intensive therapy has finally laid that particular demon to rest. Derek knows now that the death of his family was not his fault; he knows that just because he cares about someone, it doesn’t mean their grisly death is imminent.</p><p>Even so, he still hasn’t acknowledged his feelings for Stiles openly.</p><p>There’s no point. That's what he tells himself. It isn't because he's afraid.</p><p>Never once in their friendship has Stiles shown interest in that way. And it isn’t as though he holds back about his feelings. When he was infatuated with Lydia everyone knew. When he fell for his college roommate in his freshman year he emailed the pack for advice, and then regularly updated them on his progress. If he’d ever had feelings for Derek there’s no way he’d have kept it quiet this long.</p><p>So. </p><p>Derek’s own feelings complicate their current predicament, is all. </p><p>He won’t back out, though, because the alternative to their current plan involves Stiles being shipped off to Pennsylvania to become emissary for a strange pack.</p><p>So. It isn’t as though Derek has much of a choice.</p><p>This has to work, that’s all there is to it,  because the idea of life without Stiles in it is not something Derek wants to contemplate.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, where am I gonna sleep?” Stiles asks. They’re still in the process of unpacking, and he’s standing in the doorway to Derek’s bedroom surrounded by bags of clothes, clutching his grimy old pillow to his chest like a shield.</p><p>With a shrug, Derek gestures at his bed, feigning a nonchalance he absolutely does not feel.</p><p>“Yeah,” Stiles swallows. “I mean. I was thinking maybe the couch. The couch looks comfy. Big.”</p><p>“They need to believe that we’re mated,” Derek says shortly. “Our scents have to be so entwined that an Alpha werewolf won’t question it. That means we have to sleep in the same bed.”</p><p>He isn’t being weird, it’s the truth. To have a hope in hell of pulling this off there can’t be any room for doubt in Alpha McGovern’s mind.</p><p>“Yeah, ok.” Stiles’ mouth twists. “But— Isn’t that gonna be, I don’t know, triggering, for you?” Derek stares blankly at him until he continues. “My Stilesian stank in your sacred wolfy den. Scent’s a big thing for weres, right?”</p><p>It’s these little moments of unexpected insight and understanding that have always charmed Derek the most. Sometimes Stiles shows more instinct for what it means to be a wolf than Scott<em> . </em> </p><p>Derek blinks, failing to find the right words under the weight of Stiles’ frank gaze.</p><p>“I’ll manage. It’s only temporary,” he says eventually. “But wash that damn pillow before you put it on my bed.”</p><p>“Ugh. Fine,” Stiles says, and stomps off to the washing machine, while Derek sets about making room in the closet for Stiles’ plaid shirts and graphic tees.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>They order pizza that evening, and Stiles insists on paying for it.</p><p>“Y’know, I never thought I’d find someone else who likes anchovies,” he says, as he hangs up the phone to the local pizza parlour, and Derek reaches for a book.</p><p>“Wow, we must be soulmates,” Derek deadpans.</p><p>“Dick.” Stiles punches Derek on the arm, but he’s grinning, delighted, and his scent has lost that sour edge. “Hey, hey, hey, how about anchovy soulmate marks? Huh?” He waggles his eyebrows.</p><p>Technically soulmate marks can be anything, and can appear at any age. Still, Derek has to have some limits.</p><p>“Veto.”</p><p>“But we could make it really stylized and cool, and no one except us would know <em> why </em>.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ugh. Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>For all Derek made out like it wasn’t a big deal, Stiles sleeping in his bed means something. How could it not?</p><p>They stand together in front of the bathroom mirror and brush their teeth that evening, side by side, arms knocking together. Stiles finishes first, and disappears into Derek’s bedroom. When Derek finally joins him, Stiles is wearing Batman pajama pants and his shoulders are hunched, arms folded across his bare chest, covering his nipples. </p><p>“You’re sure about this?” he says, looking Derek straight in the eye. </p><p>Like a fool Derek nods.</p><p>“Ok then.” With a shrug Stiles takes him at his word and dives onto the bed, snuggling under the comforter. He buries his head in his freshly laundered pillow and sighs.</p><p>Derek’s limbs feel numb as he climbs in and lays down next to him, careful to ensure that no part of him touches any part of Stiles.</p><p>Reaching over he fumbles with the switch on the lamp, before finally turning the light out. </p><p>Then he lies there in the quiet dark of the room and tries not to panic. </p><p>“Night,” Stiles whispers. </p><p>After that neither of them say anything.</p><p>It takes about a half hour for Stiles’ breathing to even out in sleep. His scent, musky and warm, works so well in tandem with Derek’s own that it’s like they were made for each other. The only thing more distracting is Stiles’ heart, its beat a steady pitpat that Derek couldn’t begin to tune out if he tried. And over the years he has tried. Oh god, has he tried.</p><p>Across from him Stiles sighs and rolls toward him, mumbling softly. He comes to a stop just shy of actually touching, but close enough that Derek can feel the puff of every breath he takes against the skin of his own cheek. </p><p>Grabbing his own pillow Derek turns away, rolls to the edge of the bed, and clenches his eyes shut.</p><p>It takes a long, long while for him to fall asleep.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously,” Stiles says over breakfast the next morning, “if we’re gonna get matching tattoos, we should probably discuss what they’re gonna look like.”</p><p>“Ugh.” Derek’s eyes feel heavy. Two nights of disrupted sleep, and his body clock is well and truly fucked. He slumps at the kitchen table. There’s no way he can think about this now, he needs food and coffee first.</p><p>Without a word, Stiles pushes a plate piled high with pancakes towards him, and Derek eyes them suspiciously.</p><p>“You made these?”</p><p>“No I laid them, like a chicken.”</p><p>Derek rolls his eyes, but he picks up a forkful and takes a bite. Surprisingly they’re pretty good. </p><p>“So, tattoos,” Stiles says, placing down a cup of coffee next to Derek.</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>“No. Not whatever. You already vetoed my awesome anchovy idea, remember?”</p><p>Derek keeps eating and says nothing.</p><p>“You really don’t have an opinion?” Stiles eyeballs him. “So if I said let’s get matching tattoos of Barney. Y’know. The purple dinosaur. You’d be fine with that.”</p><p>“Veto,” Derek mumbles.</p><p>“Yeah. I thought so.” After a beat Stiles says. “What about Oscar the Grouch?” He smirks when Derek glares. “You’re sure? Because I figure you two have a lot in—”</p><p>“Stiles.”</p><p>“No soulmate marks based on beloved children’s TV characters. I hear ya, big guy. Promise me you’ll think about what you will accept though.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>They spend the rest of Sunday watching shitty reality TV on Netflix, and shouting at the screen. It’s more fun than it has any right to be.</p><p>“Admit it,” Stiles says, turning to Derek at one point. “Having a TV is awesome. I was right, and you’re enjoying yourself.”</p><p>“I admit nothing,” Derek says. “Now be quiet or we’re gonna miss what happens when Cameron meets Lauren’s dad.”</p><p>The look Stiles gives him is three parts judgement, one part glee. </p><p>Derek pretends he doesn’t see.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Derek doesn’t have a job, hasn’t had one for years. After all, it isn’t as though he needs the money. Stiles says he’s a professional werewolf, and that’s not far from the truth. Derek spends his time patrolling the preserve and making sure there’s no trouble going down. The moment a big bad rears its ugly head, he’s the one who’s first on the scene to handle it. For all of Stiles’ jokes, in a town like Beacon Hills that actually is a full time job. It doesn’t leave him much time for people, though. Outside of the pack, he’s pretty isolated— and even inside the pack— well. It is what it is.<br/><br/>In contrast, Stiles is both the social hub of the pack, and on his way to becoming the most popular history teacher Beacon Hills High School has ever seen. Which would be great, except over the past year or so Stiles has developed a penchant for sweater vests, tweed blazers with leather elbow patches and, more often than not, a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses. </p><p>A few months ago when Stiles walked into a pack meeting wearing said outfit for the first time, Liam and Mason had mocked him solidly for an hour. Derek on the other hand had choked on his coffee and had to go to the bathroom to take a moment. </p><p>According to Scott half the students are crushing on Stiles, and at least three members of the faculty have asked him out. So it turns out Derek’s not alone in finding Stiles’ fashion choices ridiculously attractive.</p><p>Despite knowing all of this, Derek still isn’t prepared for the sight of Stiles showerfresh and ready for work on Monday morning in all his tweed jacketed, sweater vested glory. </p><p>“Ooh, bacon!” Stiles says, sidling up to the stove where Derek has bacon and eggs sizzling away on a skillet.</p><p>Derek grunts.</p><p>“Oh god, what’s wrong?” Stiles says, as he leans across Derek and plucks a strip of bacon, then blows on his fingers. “Yowch. Hot.”</p><p>“You don’t say.”</p><p>“Har har. Why were you glaring?”<br/><br/>“You just stole my bacon.”</p><p>“Before that. You glared when I came in. Do I have something on my face?” He crams the strip of bacon into his mouth and chews.</p><p>“No.” Derek keeps his eye on the pan with dogged determination. He isn’t ready for this. It’s too early.</p><p>“Is my hair ok?” When Derek doesn’t say anything, he asks, “Is it the blazer?” Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Stiles looks down at his stupid, amazing blazer and twist this way and that to get a better look.</p><p>“Scott texted,” Derek says, changing the subject. “Said he contacted the McGovern pack and informed them of our ‘soul bond’. Apparently they weren’t happy. He also wanted to know how we were getting on.”</p><p>“Yeah, he texted me the same thing.” </p><p>“What did you say?” Derek glances at him.</p><p>Stiles shrugs. “I said we were doing pretty well.” He scrunches his nose. “Why? What did you say?”</p><p>Derek uses tongs to flip the bacon and tries to ignore how warm Stiles’ casual words make him feel. “I told him you snore, but we’re making it work.”</p><p>“Wow,” Stiles says, shaking his head. His expression walks the line between pissed off and amused, but amused wins out. He tucks his tongue into his cheek and ducks his head. When he looks up again his gaze is fond. “Maybe I’ll text him about how you steal the covers, huh?”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Or how you give out enough heat at night that it’s like sleeping on the surface of the sun?” He shuffles closer, and Derek clamps down on the urge to take a step back.</p><p>“I could tell him how you eat like a pig,” he counters. </p><p>Stiles leans across him and swipes another strip of bacon. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger he closes his eyes and mutters, “<em> Frigus.” </em>The air immediately around them cools slightly. He stuffs the strip of bacon into his mouth, and makes a face. “Ok that didn’t work at all, too cold.” He reaches out again to steal a final strip and Derek swats his fingers with the tongs. “Hey you say I eat like a pig, but aren’t you the guy who ate twelve pancakes for breakfast yesterday?” Stiles sneaks a third strip, and crams it into his mouth.</p><p>“Yeah, but you can’t see my food as I eat it.”</p><p>“You mean like this? Blargh.” Stiles lets his jaw hang slack, revealing a mass of half-chewed bacon.  </p><p>“Idiot,” Derek mutters, averting his gaze again. The word sounds ridiculously tender to his own ears, but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“Ha! I win,” he crows, and socks Derek on the arm, before he heads out the kitchen to the hallway. “Hey, I was thinking about our tattoo dilemma,” he calls. “And it occurred to me that we could do something wolf or moon related.”</p><p>When Derek doesn’t reply Stiles sticks his head around the door. “You’re not keen?” he says.</p><p>“For a werewolf? I don’t know. Feels cliche.”</p><p>Stiles blows out a sigh. “I guess I can see that. Ok. Something else then. I’ll keep thinking.” He ducks back out again.</p><p>Derek can hear Stiles moving around, grabbing his keys and his bag. “Ok, see you later, boo!” he calls as he slides the door to the loft open. </p><p>“Veto!” Derek calls. “Veto. Veto. Veto.” He’s pretty sure Stiles doesn’t hear him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Sour Wolf, you like Mexican food?” Stiles asks, when he gets home from school, the next night.</p><p>Derek exhales heavily through his nose, and snaps the book he’s reading shut. “Who doesn’t?” </p><p>He looks up.</p><p>Immediately he regrets it.</p><p>Today Stiles wore a bow tie, a <em> fucking </em>bow tie. Derek feels personally victimized. Not to mention his eyes are goddamn luminous thanks to the golden light of early evening that streams through the main window of the loft.</p><p>“Melissa gave me her recipe for enchiladas. Thought we might have them for dinner.”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>“Cool,” Stiles grins. “I have history reports to grade afterwards, but maybe we could hang later.”</p><p>“If you want.”</p><p>They eat dinner, Derek washes the dishes as Stiles grades reports at the kitchen table. He looks tired by the time he’s finished, but they still end up slumped on the couch as the evening wears on. Derek sits at one end reading quietly, Stiles sprawls out, head on the armrest as he dicks around on his phone, at some point he tucks his toes under the meat of Derek’s thigh, and Derek pretends not to notice.</p><p>Eventually Stiles’ breathing evens out in a way that Derek’s become painfully familiar with. He looks up from his book to see Stiles’ face slack in sleep, glasses askew.</p><p>Oh so gently, Derek gets to his feet, removes Stiles’ glasses and places them on the coffee table. Then he pulls a throw from the back of the couch and drapes it over him, tucking it into place, and goes to make them both cocoa.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>For all Derek’s misgivings, it’s astonishing how quickly they settle into a routine.</p><p>After those first few nights Stiles keeps on cooking, which is great, because Derek’s never been able to make anything worth a damn other than bacon and eggs. He’s spent the last few years living on TV dinners and takeout. Now Stiles is here, though, he won’t let Derek get away with that any more. </p><p>While Stiles’ cooking isn’t gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, it’s hearty, healthy(ish), and there’s lots of it to go around. </p><p>By their third night together, Derek has a belly full of Buffalo chicken and is watching Stiles play some kind of first person shooter on his Xbox in the living room.</p><p>“The circle is all that matters. Also, you have to drink shield potions,” Stiles is saying. “And don’t engage with anyone unless you’re one hundred percent certain of success, otherwise— aw, shit.” He hammers the buttons wildly.</p><p>“Right,” Derek says, more focused on the way Stiles’ shoulder is knocking against his own, then anything on screen.</p><p>“I have a spare controller,” Stiles says, nudging him. “Go on, pick it up. We can do this.”</p><p>Turns out Derek’s awful at computer games, but Stiles seems to enjoy teaching him, so it works out ok in the end.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Derek isn’t good at not caring. Never has been. There’s always been some part of him, idealistic, naive, unwilling to let go of the idea of love, however much it burns him.</p><p>In the aftermath of his family's death, though, he tries. He doesn’t just build a wall around his heart, he builds armored battlements— He weaponizes guilt and anger, spits staccato bullets of rage at anyone who tries to get too close. He digs trenches of misery and despair and decks them in sharp sarcastic barbs, designed to shred intruders. </p><p>It works right up until it doesn't. Until Laura’s death. Until Derek stumbles across Stiles and Scott hunting in the preserve for Scott’s inhaler.</p><p>Lonely and terrified, Derek isn’t able to resist seeking Scott out, desperate for the safety and comfort only a pack will provide. He’s angry at himself for wanting it, and angrier still at Scott when he rejects it. Furious that Scott lacks the patience to look past his armaments and see the hurt that causes the rage— for not getting <em> it </em>.</p><p>As it turns out, Derek’s pinning his hopes on the wrong friend. Stiles is the key. Loud. Obnoxious. Smart. Curious. Fearless in spite of his fear. He keeps on being there. He complains loudly, but he turns up. He calls Derek on his shit, but he never once lets him down. Again and again he demonstrates that Derek can rely on him, that he needs him, until it’s hopeless for Derek to deny it.</p><p>Derek’s spent years telling himself he’s done with love. Turns out love isn’t done with him.</p><p>But this isn’t love born out of infatuation or manipulation. It’s love born out of trust— and trust is a currency Derek hasn’t used before with anyone who isn’t family. </p><p>Turns out love rooted in trust means knowing that someone will have your back when things get tough. It allows space and time for growth and healing. It sanctifies the mundanities of everyday life and elevates them to something beautiful.</p><p>Trust is everything.</p><p>Derek knows that now.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“All the railroad stations and the orange properties belong to me,” Stiles says, as he deals out Monopoly dollars for them both. “I’m warning you now, that’s just the way it is, so don’t cross me.”</p><p>“Pretty sure that’s not how this game works.” Derek picks up the dice and immediately rolls a double six; he moves his top hat round twelve spaces.</p><p>“I’m serious, Derek. If you buy New York Avenue straight out the gate, I will never forgive you.”</p><p><em>“</em>I’ll take that risk<em>.</em>” Derek picks up the dice to roll again. He lands on Free Parking anyway, so it’s a non issue.</p><p>Stiles ends up with a real estate empire. By the end of the game he owns nearly three quarters of the properties, including every railroad station, both utilities, three hotels and seven houses.</p><p>He bleeds Derek dry making money out of a hotel on Baltic fucking Avenue.</p><p>The stupid little dance he does when he finally wins is so endearing, Derek can’t bring himself to be annoyed at the loss.</p><p>“We need to commemorate this victory. What about matching Scottie dog tattoos?” Stiles winks.</p><p>“Make it the iron and you’ve got a deal.”</p><p>“Wait! Really?” Stiles looks fucking delighted.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Aw, man!”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>One unexpected side effect of Stiles living with Derek is that visits from other members of the pack become more frequent. Before, Derek only really saw them if there was a pack meeting, or a problem that needed to be solved. </p><p>Which. </p><p>Ok.</p><p>That sounds— </p><p>It isn’t as though the pack hasn’t tried to include him over the years, but Derek’s made a habit of keeping people at a distance, and he doesn’t know how to break it.</p><p>Now, though, he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. It just— happens.</p><p>A long standing Stilinski-McCall tradition means Scott comes round for dinner and gaming with Stiles every Thursday (assuming the world isn’t about to end), and now Derek’s there too because, well, where else would he be? It’s his home. After dinner he tries to excuse himself and give them space, but they both cajole him into joining them. By the following week Stiles has even bought a third controller, specifically so Derek can be part of ‘bro night,’ and just like that he’s part of the tradition too.</p><p>Lydia drops by one night just to see how things are going. Stiles isn’t back from work yet— there’s a parent-teacher evening at school. So she stalks the room, casts a critical eye over the leftover spell ingredients that Stiles left out on the kitchen table last night, while he was practicing protection spells.</p><p>She picks up a bundle of charred sage and raises an eyebrow at Derek when she sees a scorch mark on the table. “If you’re gonna let him practice magic in the house, I hope you have insurance.”</p><p>Derek shrugs, and doesn’t say anything; she sends him a look that’s just a little too knowing for comfort.</p><p>Shaking her head she crosses the room to take a look at the bookshelves, then snorts gently. “Seriously?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Asimov, Jules Verne, Arthur C. Clarke?” She gestures to the books in question.</p><p>“You don’t like science fiction?” Derek folds his arms, hackles raised.</p><p>“I love science fiction. But have you read anything written in <em> this </em> century?” </p><p>A lively debate follows. Now she and Derek recommend books to each other. Sometimes they even meet up to discuss the books over coffee. It’s fucking weird.</p><p>Last weekend, Kira and Mason turned up unannounced and insisted they all go to the arcade on Sunday afternoon. Derek and Kira teamed up to whoop everyone’s asses at Air Hockey (and gloat about it— Derek’s a good loser, but a terrible winner), then they ate ice cream.</p><p>As for Liam, he drops by one Tuesday a couple of weeks in to get some relationship advice from Stiles. </p><p>“You are <em> so </em>asking the wrong person, dude!” Stiles says cheerfully. “But you can stay for dinner if you want.”</p><p>Liam does stay for dinner, and ends up in conversation with Derek about combat techniques. Now he comes round every Tuesday to visit <em> Derek </em>so they can train together.</p><p>The armor Derek’s spent years building is slowly being chipped away. He’s starting to realize he has a place in the pack, a role beyond the limited one he’s given himself of watchman and protector.</p><p>“You smile more now,” Stiles says to him one night, after Liam’s gone home. They’re standing in the kitchen, cleaning up. Derek’s washing the dishes, and Stiles is drying them. “You smile a lot more. Y’know that?”</p><p>Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“It’s good,” Stiles says, nudging his shoulder gently. “I like it. I’m gonna have to come up with a different nickname though. Soon Sourwolf won’t cut it anymore.”</p><p>On principle Derek flicks suds at him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever even met anyone with a soulmate before?”</p><p>They’re lying in bed next to each other, lights out. For the past five minutes Derek’s been listening to Stiles’ heartbeat. It’s a habit he’s developed since Stiles moved in, to help him drift off to sleep. Usually it works. Tonight though, Stiles is fidgety and restless— his heartbeat skipping all over the place. So it’s unsurprising that he was building up to something.<br/><br/>Once Stiles asks the question, he rolls onto his side to face Derek, the shape of him just visible in the dark of the room. </p><p>When Derek doesn’t reply immediately, Stiles continues, “Because they’re pretty rare, right? There was this girl at high school, Harley, a tattoo appeared on her calf in junior year, right in the middle of a history test— and there was this one guy at college who had a soul mark too— but. I don’t know. I just wonder about it, is all. Soulmates. It’s such old magic— no one really understands how it works.”</p><p>“You do like to know how things work.”</p><p>“I do. And I mean— I have suspicions.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>He hears the shrug in Stiles’ voice, as he says, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few years, it’s that ninety percent of magic is intent, so— there has to be some kind of a choice to it, right? Somewhere?” He trails off. </p><p>It’s an interesting idea. Comforting, in it’s own way.</p><p>“My parents were soulmates,” Derek says, after a beat.</p><p>“Oh my god, seriously?” Stiles reaches behind himself and fumbles the switch for the bedside lamp; when it turns on Derek blinks, squinting at the bright puddle of light which fills the room.</p><p>A moment later Stiles looms closer. “Your parents?” he says, and bites his lip.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“But—” Stiles jaw works soundlessly, and then he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “Huh.”</p><p>Derek’s known Stiles long enough to appreciate the restraint on display. Clearly he has a shit ton of questions, just as clearly he isn’t going to ask them.</p><p>“I don’t mind talking about it,” Derek says. The death of his family is an old wound now. It still hurts, it will <em> always </em>hurt, but years of therapy mean it’s a dull ache, not the ragged, gaping hole it used to be.</p><p>Stiles rolls on to his side and props himself up onto one elbow; his eyes rake Derek’s face. Eventually he says, “What was it like? Having soulmates for parents, I mean.”</p><p>“I don’t know—” Derek searches for the words. “I guess I never knew it any other way. They loved each other. They loved us. In the wider pack it was a big thing. When my mom got her mark she was sixteen, and they had this big celebration— according to werewolf tradition those with soulmarks are said to have been touched by Selene.”</p><p>“Goddess of the moon.” Stiles’ lips twist up in a smile.</p><p>Derek shrugs. “They had another big party after my parents found each other. I saw the pictures. They used to celebrate the anniversary of it every year, and we’d have a big barbecue and run in the preserve—”</p><p>“Sounds like fun.”</p><p>“It was.”</p><p>Stiles plucks at the comforter. “What— what mark did they have?”</p><p>Derek sucks in a breath and can’t let it go. When he finally brings himself to say, “Triskele,” in a low voice, he finds he can’t look directly at Stiles. </p><p>Outside of his immediate family no one else has ever known the significance of his tattoo, until now. </p><p>“Oh,” Stiles says, soft. “Derek.”</p><p>The way he says those two words it’s as though he sees every single squirming moment of self hatred, guilt and doubt that led to Derek’s decision to get that tattoo. In that moment Derek feels exposed. Known, in a way he never thought he could be.</p><p>There’s a long pause where neither of them says anything, but then Stiles reaches out and lets his hand hover over Derek’s. A silent offer of comfort. Or friendship. Maybe both.</p><p>Derek takes it, twines their fingers together. “It used to be a way to punish myself,” he confirms. Stiles knows anyway, and it feels good to finally say it aloud. “But I don’t— for a long time now it’s just been a way to remember them. I’m glad I have it.” It’s the truth.</p><p>Stiles squeezes his hand, and they lie there like that a long while.</p><p>“Do you think they’d mind what we’re doing. Y’know, pretending?” he asks eventually.</p><p>It’s something that Derek’s thought about a lot in the last few weeks. Would his parents approve or would they be offended? Each time he imagines telling them the conversation goes a different way. The only thing he’s absolutely sure of is that they would love Stiles.  “I don’t know,” he admits. “But <em> I </em> don’t mind, and that’s what matters.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>They’re walking through the preserve late one evening, the sultry heat of the day is beginning to dissipate, and a cool breeze rustles the leaves of nearby trees. Stiles was supposed to be practicing protection spells again, but elected to join Derek on patrol instead.</p><p>For the first couple of miles they walk together in companionable silence save for the crunch of leaves underfoot, birds trilling overhead, and the squeak of Derek’s leather jacket. </p><p>About a half hour into their trek the ground begins to climb and the trees thin out, until eventually they crest a hill. Beacon Hills is cradled in the valley beneath them, surrounded on all sides by the preserve. It’s street lights glow like stars in a tiny galaxy. </p><p>Above them, the actual stars are just becoming visible in the dimming light, winking at them in the darkening sky.</p><p>“Amazing,” Stiles breathes, peering out at it all, and Derek agrees, but he isn’t looking at the view.</p><p>“Shoulda bought a coat, though.” Stiles folds his arms across his chest. “Definitely getting chillier. Maybe I should conjure some fire or—”</p><p>Without a word Derek tugs off his leather jacket and offers it to him.</p><p>“Seriously?” Stiles grins. “The sacred leather jacket? For me?”</p><p>“If you don’t want it—” Derek pretends to take it back, and Stiles makes grabby hands.</p><p>“No, no, no, I want it. I’m cold.” He tugs it out of Derek’s unresisting grip and drags it on. “Oh god, it’s so warm.” He sighs. “And it smells amazing.”</p><p>Derek shakes his head, amused. “Sure it does.”</p><p>“What?” Stiles says. “It does. I know I don’t have a werewolf nose. But this scent!” He lifts the lapels of his jacket and takes a deep huff. “It smells of leather, and your cologne, and soap, and just— you.”</p><p>“Uh—” Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. </p><p>Stiles shrugs. “Maybe it’s a pack thing. Is it a pack thing? Hey, what do I smell like?” He shuffles forward into Derek’s space, so close they’re almost touching. He lifts an arm and makes a wafting movement with his free hand, not that it’s necessary. This close his scent is all consuming.</p><p>“Well?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“I uh—” Derek’s throat clicks as he swallows. “You. You smell like you.”</p><p>“That’s it?” Stiles frowns and tries to sniff his own armpit. “Do I smell good at least?”</p><p>“I like it.” Derek means it to sound casual, but his voice cracks treacherously over the words. </p><p>Stiles drops his arm, and his head snaps up, eyes raking Derek’s face.</p><p>“Huh,” he says; immediately Derek looks away.</p><p>“We should go.” Derek turns and begins to walk back down the trail. “You have to practice your magic, remember.”</p><p>“Right,” Stiles says, after a beat. “Yeah. Ok.”</p><p>All the way home Stiles is quiet, pensive, and more than once Derek’s aware of his silent scrutiny. If he suspects Derek’s true feelings though, he doesn’t say anything— and that’s a kindness which Derek’s grateful for.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Gravity, electromagnetism, strong and weak. Stiles had once explained to Derek about the four fundamental forces that underpin the universe, holding everything together and shaping reality. It was enlightening, or it had been, right up until Stiles had careened off course, dived down a conversational back alley or two, and ended up ranting about how the Golden Girls was the greatest sitcom of all time. Not that Derek disagrees, he just isn’t sure how they got from physics to Betty White.</p><p>Over the years Derek’s come to acknowledge that his own internal reality is governed by two fundamental forces of its own: Fear and love. Unfortunately he’s lived most of his adult life too paralyzed by one, to really embrace the other.</p><p> </p><p>-<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>That evening, when they get back from the preserve Stiles is quiet. In itself, that isn’t unusual. Derek’s lived with Stiles long enough now to know that bouts of introspection are to be expected. It’s the cause of this particular one that’s giving Derek pause, that, and the way Stiles keeps watching him.</p><p>Something passed between them back there in the preserve, and Derek isn’t sure how to handle it.</p><p>Left to himself, he’d do what he’s already done for the better part of a decade and ignore it.</p><p>He’s fairly sure that won’t fly now, though. Stiles isn’t the type. If he has even an inkling of Derek’s feelings, there’s no way he won’t broach the subject. To say what, though? That’s the million dollar question.</p><p>Hope flutters around in Derek’s chest, panicked, like a baby bird that’s fallen from it’s nest and broken its wing. His brain is an endless screeching loop of: <em> he knows, he must know, he does know, but what if he doesn’t? What then? Is that worse?. </em>It drowns out his capacity to think rationally or settle to anything. </p><p>Sitting on the couch that evening he reads the same sentence in the book Lydia lent him thirty times before giving it up as a lost cause.</p><p>Across from him, Stiles has his own books spread out around him, ostensibly he’s studying magic. For the last two minutes, though, he’s been staring at Derek like he’s a puzzle to be solved.</p><p>“I have to go to bed,” Derek blurts, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer. He stands to his feet.</p><p>Stiles blinks, coming to himself. “Oh. Yeah. Right. I—” He looks down at his books and sighs. “Maybe I’ll call it a night too.”</p><p>They go through the motions of getting ready for bed in relative silence. At one point, while they’re standing next to each other in front of the bathroom mirror brushing their teeth, Stiles pauses, toothbrush hanging limply from his mouth, eyes on Derek. For one moment, Derek’s convinced he’s about to speak. </p><p>When nothing is forthcoming though, Derek spits his own mouthful of toothpaste out, and says, “You ok?” as casually as he can.</p><p>Stiles gives himself a little shake. “Yeah,” he says, and flashes Derek a grin that feels performative at best. “Yeah, I’m good.”</p><p>And that’s that.</p><p>In bed that night, lying in the dark, Derek resigns himself to the idea that he’s gotten away with it.</p><p>Even if Stiles suspects what Derek feels, he clearly isn’t gonna risk their friendship by saying anything.</p><p>And that’s good.</p><p>That’s great.</p><p>That’s just aces.</p><p>Derek would rather that, than complicating things between them with an outright rejection.</p><p>Because it would be a rejection. </p><p>Whatever the crazy baby bird flopping frantically around in his chest thinks, Stiles doesn’t return his feelings. That’s never gonna happen. </p><p>In fact, Derek tells himself, it’s possible this is all in his own head. Perhaps Stiles doesn’t suspect a thing.</p><p>After all, for eight long years Derek’s worked hard to make sure the person who knows him best in the world, doesn’t know the most important thing about him. It’s doubtful that changed because of one moment in the preserve earlier.</p><p>So.</p><p>Derek’s secret is probably still safe.</p><p>Hooray. Hoo-fuckin’-ray.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>When the alarm goes off the next morning, Derek’s theory is confirmed. Stiles bounds out of bed with his usual energy, sings loudly and tunelessly in the shower, and even does a little shimmy as he’s picking out clothes. All traces of last night’s awkwardness have disappeared overnight.</p><p>Unable to sleep through Stiles’ serenade Derek heads downstairs like always to make breakfast, and gives himself a damn good talking too.</p><p>He isn’t disappointed. It’s fine. It’s all fine. They'll just fall back into what they’ve had. What they’ve always had. And it’s enough. It’s always been enough. </p><p>When Stiles finally joins Derek all dressed for work, he chats aimlessly, leaning over the pan just as he usually does to snatch strips of bacon before Derek can bat his hand away with the tongs.</p><p>“‘K—” Stiles says through a mouthful of bacon. “Gotta get gone. ‘Member, I’ll b’late home t’night. Trainin’ with Deaton after work.” </p><p>As he turns to leave Derek huffs out a sigh, half frustrated, half amused. “Stiles, wait! You just dripped bacon grease on your shirt.”</p><p>“Wha—?” Stiles swallows, and looks down. “Oh fuck.” There’s a massive dribble of grease right under Stiles’ bow tie. There’s no way the blazer is gonna hide it.</p><p>Derek grabs a damp dish cloth, and steps forward. “Here, let me.” He dabs at the stain, which doesn’t seem to accomplish much, except now the shirt’s damp <em> and </em> greasy. “Shit. That’s not working—”</p><p>“Derek.”</p><p>“Maybe if you waited until I actually put the bacon on a plate instead of—”</p><p>“Derek,” Stiles says. His voice is pitched low, but there’s a slight pleading edge to it, that makes Derek look up.</p><p>They’re standing close, much closer than he’d realized, his fingers still clutching the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, foreheads all but touching— and Stiles is watching him, eyes soft, lips slightly parted. There’s an open tenderness in his expression that Derek can’t remember seeing before. </p><p> “I—” Derek finds he doesn’t have a middle or an end to the sentence, and lets the word hang there. The moment stretches between them, delicate, brittle as frost on a spring morning. Stiles’ scent, always heady, is laced with something else— something Derek hasn’t smelled before, at least, not directed at him. Affection. Arousal. It’s sweet as spun sugar on the back of Derek’s tongue.</p><p>He sucks in a breath, tempted, in the heat of the moment, to close the distance and kiss Stiles. He thinks he could. Is almost brave enough, but then Stiles shivers, a kind of full body shudder, and the spell is broken.</p><p>Immediately Derek lets go of Stiles’ shirt and steps back. “It— uh. You should probably change out of that. I can wash it while you’re at—” He trails off and they both stare at each other; Derek feels his stomach swoop.</p><p>Stiles blinks. “Yeah,” he says. “Right. I’ll um.” He runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back. “I’ll go do that. Thanks.”</p><p>He disappears a moment later, leaving Derek to serve himself breakfast and wonder exactly what is going on. He isn’t imagining the tension between them, there’s something there, but he isn’t sure what it means to Stiles.</p><p>When Stiles appears again a few minutes later he’s wearing a fresh shirt under his blazer. His face is pale, so fucking pale, and his heart rate is through the roof. It doesn’t bode well. “I put the dirty shirt in the laundry basket,” he says from the relative safety of the kitchen doorway.</p><p>Derek’s standing at the counter, and pushing bacon and eggs around his plate without eating. “Ok,” he says, “I’ll wash it.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“No problem.” </p><p>Stiles blows out a sigh. “I’ll just uh- hmm.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the front door, still holding Derek’s gaze.</p><p>“Right. Uh.” Derek swallows. “Have a good day.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Stiles doesn’t move. “Thanks. I— um. I’ll try.”</p><p>When Derek doesn’t say anything else he sighs and turns away; moments later Derek hears the front door shut, and then he’s alone in the apartment.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Stiles likely won’t be home until at least seven o’clock that evening, which gives Derek a whole day to try and work out what he’s going to say. Because he is going to have to say something, that much is obvious now. </p><p>It’s a shame there isn’t an appropriate greetings card. “I’ve been in love with you for years, and now you seem to be attracted to me too, but if you want to act on it, it can’t be anything casual, because you’re pretty much it for me,” is, weirdly, not one Derek’s seen at the store.</p><p>No. There’s no way around it. Awkward conversations are going to be had.</p><p>At least Derek has time to prepare himself. It’s like taking a punch, if he steels himself and angles himself just right, it’ll still hurt, but maybe he can avoid any major damage to himself— or their friendship.</p><p>It turns out time is a luxury Derek doesn’t have, though. Fifteen minutes after Stiles leaves for work, Derek hears the familiar rattle of the Jeep's engine as it turns down the street and parks up in front of his building.</p><p>“You forget something?” Derek says, when Stiles bursts through the door to the apartment a few moments later, flushed and lightly sheened with sweat from climbing six flights of stairs.</p><p>“No,” Stiles drops his bag on the floor. “No. I uh— I called in sick.”</p><p>“You’re sick?” Derek takes a step towards him, nostrils flaring. He doesn’t smell sick. Anxious, yes, but— </p><p>“No. I’m not, I—” He runs a hand through his hair, and won’t meet Derek’s eye. “We need to talk.”</p><p>Derek’s stomach sinks like a stone. “Ok.”</p><p>“Ok.”  Stiles bites his lip; his eyes dart to Derek and away. “I’ll start, I guess.” He begins to pace the room. “I don’t know where to- Maybe— No. Right. Ok. Living with you for the past few weeks has been—” He swallows. “I mean I never expected it. Eight years we’ve been friends, but I never realized- It was only last night in the preserve that I even considered for the first time that you— that we might be more than—” He brings his fist to his mouth, cutting himself off.</p><p>“Stiles—”</p><p>“And it didn’t freak me out, y’know?" He says, urgently. "I felt good about it. That’s the thing. It was like in that second I saw how you felt, it was written all over your face, and every single interaction we ever had was reframed around that information. And it didn’t scare me, it just— made me aware of my own heart. It made me happy. And I was like— yeah. This is gonna happen. You care about me and I— I care about you and we’ll probably take it slow, but we can make this work. We might have to fake a soul bond for some stupid pack, but maybe we don’t have to fake a relationship, and it’ll be good, because we— we <em> know </em>each other right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Derek says, voice hoarse. “We do.” </p><p>“Right.” He throws his hands in the air. “And then I had to go and fucking spill that fucking grease on my shirt this morning and ruin everything.” He clutches his hair.</p><p>“Stiles?” To say Derek is confused by this conversational u-turn is an understatement. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Y’know when Lydia first suggested this idea for us, the whole fake soulmate thing— I wasn’t exactly on board.” He tugs off his blazer and hurls it onto the couch.</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>“Partly because I object to having to fake a relationship just to get some other pack off my back, and partly because. God. I don’t know. I guess I’m not sure about the concept of soul mates, anyway. I mean. Love should be about choice, right? It should be about two people wanting each other. Organically. Naturally. Because it's right, not because the universe dictates- I mean, how can it be love if there's no choice? Choice is everything. And if anyone deserves a choice, Derek—” He’s shaking. Physically shaking now, as he undoes the buttons on his shirt. “It’s you. You deserve to choose who you get to be with.”</p><p>“Stiles,” Derek lifts a hand, ready to placate, even though he isn’t sure what’s happening. “What’s—”</p><p>“So this morning when you were dabbing bacon grease off my shirt and we were staring into each other’s eyes, I felt this weird sensation. Like. I don’t know. I can’t describe it. But when I went upstairs to change my damn shirt—” </p><p>Taking a step back, he turns away and lets his shirt drop; Derek’s whole world tilts on its axis so fast he’s dizzy with it.</p><p>“Derek,” Stiles pleads, after a long moment. “Say something.” </p><p>“Holy shit,” Derek says with feeling. He steps forward. It’s there in swirls of black ink that are stark against the pale, mole-speckled skin of Stiles’ back. A triskele. The exact position, size and shape of Derek’s own tattoo. Identical in every respect. “How? Is that even—”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Stiles says, miserably. “I swear. I just. It happened. I didn’t— I’ve never heard of anything like this before.” He pulls his shirt back on and turns to face Derek, eyes huge and worried. “Derek?”</p><p>Derek’s brain has blue screened, he can’t do anything more than stand there, staring.</p><p>“Look,” Stiles says, “it doesn’t have to mean anything, ok? Not if you— I mean you deserve to know it’s there. But I know how important that symbol is to you. How personal. And, let's be real, I don’t even know if it is a soul mark. I mean I’ve never heard of one person just— of.” He swallows. “Derek, say something. Please.”</p><p>The thread of pure distress in Stiles’ voice calls out to Derek, and he startles, coming back to himself. “I guess we don’t have to go with the anchovy tattoo.” One corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile.</p><p>Stiles makes a choked sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “You’re not freaked out? Why aren’t you more freaked out? I mean. This morning, I was in the shower thinking, maybe I’ll ask Derek on an actual date when I get home. Giants are playing this weekend, and I figured, you like baseball, I like baseball—  But now it’s like our whole future is just—” He snaps his fingers. “Gone. Decided for us. Without any—”</p><p>“You were gonna ask me on a date?” Derek says, cutting him off.</p><p>Stiles nods.</p><p>“So do it.”</p><p>“But— I can’t. This changes everything. You have to say yes now, because—”</p><p>“There’s always a choice, Stiles. You said so yourself. The fact that you’re even thinking about this. That it’s an issue for you at all, proves that we still have a choice. This mark that appeared, whether it’s an actual soul mark or some magical fluke. It’s what we choose to make of it that matters. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless we both want it too.” </p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Absolutely.” Derek swallows. “Ask me out.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Just like you were gonna do anyway, if you still want to.”</p><p>Stiles throat bobs, and he wets his lips. “I was gonna make you chicken parm,” he admits. “My mom’s recipe. I was planning it all out in bed last night. I was gonna pick the ingredients up after I finished training with Deaton. I was gonna get a bottle of wine. The whole nine yards. There was gonna be actual wooing.”</p><p>“Just <em> ask </em> me.”</p><p>“Right. Just ask.” He takes a breath, and straightens his shoulders. “Hey, Derek. Wanna catch a baseball game with me this weekend as— more than friends?”</p><p>Derek grins, he just can’t help himself. “Yeah, Stiles. Yeah, I really fucking do.” </p><p>The smile that spreads across Stiles' face is nothing short of breathtaking.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Maybe the triskele on Stiles' back is a soul mark. Maybe it's some kind of cosmic accident. Ninety percent of magic is intent, though. Someone Derek trusts implicitly told him that once, so it must be true. Either way, when Derek's curled next to Stiles on the couch that evening, watching the sun as it sinks low on the horizon, he can't bring himself to care. They've spent a whole day talking, making plans, making out, making a future. Magic is one thing, but love, real love-- not the movie kind, is one hundred percent intent. It's a choice, and it's one Derek intends to keep making for as long as he can.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>Love is not a symptom of time<br/>Time is just a symptom of love<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There it is. As always if you leave kudos or comments, I am eternally grateful. </p><p>The  quote at the end is taken from Time, As a Symptom, by Joanna Newsom. It's the second time I've used lyrics from that song as inspiration for a fic. .</p><p>Also, I'm on <a href="http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if you wanna say hi!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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